A Conversation
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Heero and Trowa spend part of a day together.


**A Conversation**

Speaking was akin to putting sugar in tea. The words were rare, a commodity that was not to be wasted, and the sugar was important in order to remember details. These details were that of everyday living, of remembering to savor something small. Speaking was the divine rolling of the tongue, the scrape against teeth when a syllable would come up that required it. This was the wonderful noise of the human race that told one another they were not alone, the languages of the colonies and Earth all fusing together, stuck in a giant bird's throat that warbled a wonderful, terrifying melody. But the words were thrown carelessly together, stringing sentences to one another like a chain gang of ideas. No one stopped to stir the brew, to feel the thoughts of another pour into their mind like sugar-sweetened tea down the throat.

Some spoke haltingly. So haltingly in fact, that each syllable was thought out before it was uttered. Trowa spoke in this way, but for him words were not the sugar in the tea, but the tea in the tea. That is to say, there was nothing in the passing of a sentence that conveyed anything other than what he said. There was no mystery to the meaning of his words, no lack of clarity that could come with yes or no. He stated, but did not conjecture. He smiled, but never smirked. He frowned, but never in anxiety or any emotion more complex or passionate than puzzlement. He left his eyes to pose questions, to hate and love without words.

He and Heero Yuy were walking side by side one insignificant day, in an insignificant place with forgettable scenery and buildings. In the colony's summer sun, the shop windows gleamed brightly from under their awnings and the streets were strewn with people, buying, smelling, tasting the air that was ripe with the goings-on of a post-war economy boom. These were the good days, the prosperous days when the sun drowned out memories of dark wintry war and people could speak to one another without thought. These gluttons of speech squeaked together like a badly oiled machine that was slowly picking up pace again, recovering from the sickness of fascism.

There was no particular reason for these two ex-soldiers to be walking along, stiffly ambling along the sides of the street, barely casting a shadow from where they were keeping a tight path along the wall. They were here in this street because Heero had been there, and Trowa had been there, and then they were together. Some things were as simple as Trowa's sentences.

Heero's boots made a heavy clunking syllable against the paving stones, tapping out a quiet trudging rhythm lost to all but Trowa who was next to him. Trowa's feet carried him in a longer, smooth stride, a quiet way of travel that made him so unnoticeable no one paid him any heed. He glided through the throngs of people like an agile water snake through waving reeds, and Heero followed alongside the straight brick wall, remaining sheltered from breaking off into the crowd.

A sheen of sweat slicked Heero's back as he stopped to take off the denim jacket he had been wearing, shrugging it backwards down his forearms and stretching his shoulders blades away from one another. The familiar flare of the two congruent bones looked like hard butterfly wings flexing under his flesh, and Trowa watched the display without an obvious opinion about his observation.

Heero looked at him from underneath the awning of a shop window as he turned around, catching his gaze. Trowa moved forward and stepped straight past him until he was close enough to the shop to look inside; something had caught his eye. Heero followed his gaze. The store was selling everything from mechanical parts to make-up, but Trowa was looking at a thick, red silk ribbon in the bottom corner. It appeared to be a child's hair ribbon; its red hue bloomed brightly against the grays and dark olive greens of the display, sheltered from the sun's angled rays by Trowa's shadow for a scant moment. It was only a matter of time until it faded.

Heero's right thumb rubbed against the inside of his sweaty palm, and his fingers came down to rub short nails against the skin in an absent-minded gesture. He liked absent-minded gestures because he never had any, so when one came along out of the blue he let it go. Trowa's gaze was now looking at the curled hand as if he had a bad taste in his mouth; Heero guessed that was his version of looking surprised. He didn't think he had ever seen Trowa look surprised, and he catalogued the expression in his mind.

Trowa turned back in the direction from which they had come when Heero spoke.

"Wait," he said, the word spilling from his lips like a strange, wonderful nectar. His voice had color to it, an expression in it that he had never lost from his childhood. When he spoke, people listened. As the time that he and Trowa had known each other increased though, those things weren't needed and eventually weren't even welcome. Chatter - _words_ - were not something that were used very often.

"Okay," Trowa replied. Heero stepped inside the shop and left him alone in the sun amongst the moving sea of bodies. The sound of his own voice in public made him uncomfortable. After he spoke, he often felt as if someone were about to turn around in this new chattering, consuming, prospering society and point him out, brand him as a relic of the past, and try to sweep him away with the old cobwebs of unpleasant memories.

By the time he had finished his thoughts, Heero had emerged and held in his hand an orange, a wrench and a red hair ribbon.

They don't make these sort of zero-gravity tools on Earth, he explained, and handed Trowa the other two items with no further comment. He accepted them without question.

As they walked back in the direction from which they had come, Trowa split the orange and handed half back to Heero. They ate in a silence more delicious than the fruit, more precious than simplicity, more vibrant and bright than the redness of the ribbon. Trowa wove the silk through his fingers and stretched them out to make a bound five-tiered wing; his callused fingers couldnt feel the coolness of the silk against them.

They reached the tents of the circus and Heero told him goodbye, heading off towards whatever business he had on the colony that had been delayed with their short, unplanned visit. Heero's receding back eventually disappeared from sight as Trowa sat in one of the tents, gazing out from the large flap. The wind rustled the hay that was spread around the ground and Trowa licked his lips, still tasting the tangy sweetness from the orange. It twisted through his mouth like a butterfly wing shot through with a sudden streak of color, and he smiled. He always had such wonderful conversations with Heero.


End file.
